Don't Think of Me Whenever Life Gets You Down
by Min Daae
Summary: Sansa/Sandor. The dreams take a different, lighter turn, sometimes. Sex.


The days he spent riding away from King's Landing, driving Stranger to his limits, were blurry and indistinct, a haze of drunkenness and hangovers that blended one into the other, where he fell into ditches when he was too tired to ride for a few hours of restless sleep before dragging himself up onto the blasted horse and riding again.

It was always the little bird he thought of, though.

Sandor felt sickened, sometimes, by the brief dreams that flashed like fire during his short hours of rest, making him flinch in the same way. Dreams where he held the knife to her throat and forced her knees apart, dreams where she cried helplessly as he ripped the clothes off her and she tried desperately to cover herself with her hands, young breasts bouncing slightly with her movements. He hated himself worse when he woke from the dreams to find himself hard. He thought, once or twice, of finding a whore somewhere, but he'd never really cared for using them, and the Hound was too distinctive a face. He didn't want to be dragged back and hung a traitor. Not just yet, anyway.

A week out from King's Landing, a week of dizzy and aimless riding, Sandor deemed it safe to stay at an inn, counting on their fear to at least stay silent until he was well away. He resisted the urge to snarl when they quailed as he shoved the door open. "A room," he demanded, "Preferably with a good bed." The innkeep scurried to do his bidding, cowering like a little rat. Sandor resisted the urge to kick him, though it was undeniably tempting. He slammed the door in the man's face instead, and flung himself down on the bed.

The coward had given him a good room, at least – the bed was comfortable, more comfortable by far than the ground, and warm. Rising briefly, Sandor stripped off the leather outergarments, down to a tunic and breeches, and fell heavily into bed.

He wouldn't delude himself that he was safe for the night, but he could at least allow a night's sleep.

The dreams were different, that night.

She was in them, of course – the little bird, his little bird, Sansa Stark seemed to be fluttering around inside his head like a trapped songbird, banging off the walls of his skull. Though perhaps that was only the drink.

In the dream, he came to her in her room as the city burned green, and she was older, her body softer, a woman's form and not a girl's. She sat in a chair by the window and stood as he came in.

_Sandor, _she said, her voice lower than he knew it, richer. It was the first time she'd said his name. It nearly made him shiver. But he was angry – angry and drunk – and lurched toward her, grabbing her arm. He heard his own voice again, eyes boring into hers. _I could take you away…no one would ever hurt you. I'd kill them. _And she'd looked away, eyes wide with fear, and the rage had overwhelmed him and for a moment he'd been sure he would kill her-

But here, her eyes were wide with something that was not fear; and she did not look away. She reached up and touched his face, the burned half, with featherlight fingers, and that he remembered clearly enough, though he was sure that in life her fingers had not caressed like that, and sure that he could not have felt them in the same way and felt himself stirred…

She moved her hand up, ran it through his hair, looped her arms around his neck. _Sandor, _she said again, and this time her voice was warmer, full of promise, and then this older-Sansa-bird leaned up and kissed him, pressing her warm, full lips to his, her lips slightly parted, her sweet breath on his mouth.

He did feel the shiver this time, arms going around her waist – she fit in his arms very nicely, he couldn't help but note – and kissed her back, after several moments of confusion, letting his tongue slip between her lips and explore her mouth. She wasn't pressing against him, was hardly close at all, but he could feel his body respond, yearning violently toward her. Older-Sansa laughed, looking up at him through her eyelashes. Again, to his surprise, he felt her small hand touch him, cup him, and drew in a breath through his teeth, nearly jerking back. Her deft little fingers stroked his cock, though, teasing-

Sandor felt the snarl in his throat even in the dream, felt the urge to strike her. _Stop, _he growled, and she stopped, pulling back. He fought the urge to pull her back to him, crush her body to his and-

_You don't want me? _

_Yes, _he snapped, revulsion and desire gnawing painfully at his gut. _Yes, that's the problem. _

She tilted her head, and looked young again, eyes wide and innocent and blue, believing in everything. Believing in good. Well, the Lannisters had taught her better than that…if he hadn't himself… _The problem? Why?_

_You're too young, _Sandor spat, _You're a maiden, you're a lady. I don't know how to treat ladies. _

_You treat me just fine, _she said, sweetly, and glided to him again, rested both hands on his chest. Sandor looked down at her and thought of ripping her pretty dress to the waist, and just as quickly thought of Ser Boros Blount doing the same and twitched. He would not – he would never –

But of course, he had enjoyed looking at her, growing into her woman's body – hadn't enjoyed her fear, her humiliation, that had made him want to wring the stupid boy's neck, but she was beautiful – beautiful, yes, and so young. He jerked his head again.

She drew a little closer, just a little, but he could just feel her breasts against the tunic he wore to sleep. She looked up at him, her small, shy smile that she had never given him but he'd seen her give Joff flickering on her lush lips, and Sandor found himself thinking of how good it had felt to kiss her.

Savage anger seized him and he wrapped an arm around the littler bird, hauled her to her bed in the small tower room, flung her down on it. Her skirt came up, exposing long, lean legs, and he could not but think of her slender thighs where they joined her body, her hot little cunt and how he could moisten it-

He dropped to his knees beside her, tangled a hand in her hair and dragged her head back. Her neck gleamed white and pale and pure, beautiful, slender, just as it had when he held a knife to it and demanded a song. But he didn't hold a knife to her this time. This time he shoved her skirts up, parted her with a hand, and thrust a finger hard inside her. She shuddered, and gasped, and he felt a satisfaction for the way she went wet at once. _You do want, _he snarled, and she whimpered, and he hated her for it, hauled her head back harder and brought his hand in and out of her once, twice. She tightened, squirmed around his finger.

_Sandor, _she said for the third time, and he roared in fury, _Is that all you can do? _And hauled her up again, removing his hand from her, one armed, yanking the dress off her. Her red hair spilled over her shoulders, half caught up but mostly loose now, her face upturned in shock. Her body was as perfect as he'd always imagined. Small, young still, but not so young…not a child… a little thatch of auburn hair covered the cleft at the junction of her thighs, where his eyes were drawn, and he felt her tremble.

_Do I frighten you? _Sandor demanded to know, and she reached up and touched his face again, clearly self-conscious of her nakedness but trying not to be, and said, softly, _No, you don't frighten me, _and then her hands were unbuttoning his shirt and she pushed it off his shoulders, hands running over his bare skin, now.

This time, when they went to the bed, she led him. She pulled him down atop her and he followed, feeling almost – tame, until his eyes fell on her breasts again, tipped with pink and perfect nipples, and hunger overtook him. He cupped one small breast in his right hand – she wasn't full bodied, not too lush, that was all right, he liked them that way - and pressed his mouth hard to her nipple, suckling almost savagely. He could taste her skin, sweet and fruit and flowers, and it made his cock, already stiff, harden more, pressing impatiently against his breeches. Sandor heard her whimper again but did not ease his attentions, feeling her hands in his hair twist and tighten, her body writhe underneath him. Her legs spread and clamped around his chest and he could feel her, wet, against his chest, moving up and down slightly against him.

Sandor bit down and Sansa cried out, and this time he was sure he felt the gush of warmth on his skin. He fumbled at his breeches, unhooking her legs around him with ease and fingers finding their way into her again, bringing her forward. She squirmed, cried out, and for a vicious moment he wanted her to tell him to stop so he could refuse, but the moment was gone and his not-so-little bird was panting, fluttering around his fingers, color high in her face, eyes wide and not with fear.

She sat up, and moved his hands aside, undoing the laces herself, now, seeming startled at the feeling under her hands, as his flesh moved and responded to her and he heard a moan dragged from his throat. The little bird drew off his last item of clothing almost tenderly, a finger running down the length of his shaft, her expression of curious fascination so like her that he fought not to laugh.

Sandor shuddered, waiting, and she moved to her knees, hands on his shoulders. _I want you inside me_, she said in that sweet, rich voice that was Sansa's-and-not, and then, shifting her long, white legs around his back, she eased herself onto him, and his manhood was enveloped in sweet, wet warmth. A shudder ran violently through his body as she paused and he looked down.

Unsurprising, perhaps, that all of him shouldn't fit into her small cunt, especially tight as she was, a maiden, but Sandor felt a prickle of disappointment anyway. She clenched like a small fist on him, drew back, and her legs tightened around him as she drew herself toward him again, with a cry of pain, and this time she had taken all of him. His loins ached with gratitude, he couldn't stay still and flung her back, pressing his mouth to hers, and began fucking her, hard and slow, her hands clutching at his shoulders with a cry for every thrust, legs wrapped around his waist, and finally, _finally, _he lay his little bird down and took her, and she touched his face as she came again, and said his name for a fourth time.

_Sandor… _

He jerked upright in bed, her name on his tongue, and just managed to bite it back, becoming aware only after a few moments that he was still hard, cock throbbing with need. He shoved back the covers and crossed the room, feeling his anger rise in waves again, driving out the heat of desire and sex that lingered from the dream.

Stripping off his breeches again, he moved his hand jerkily along his shaft, angry. It was somehow little comfort that he hadn't actually fucked the girl.

"Barely more than a child," he snarled to his reflexion, hand pausing. "What are you, your bloody _brother_? I'd sooner lie with a snake. _She'd _sooner lie with a snake."

It was of her, though, that he thought as he jerked off, of her face, eyes wide with surprise and mouth open as she came in little shivers all around him.

And when he came, it was her name he managed not to breathe.


End file.
